


The Taste of Hope

by estelraca



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, F/F, Genderbending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 09:02:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2541935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estelraca/pseuds/estelraca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is separated from the other Amis at the start of the zombie apocalypse.  Eventually being eaten seems like a small price to pay to go find them.  Zombie AU, female Enjolras and female Grantaire, written for the Les Mis Trick or Treat Exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Taste of Hope

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for ZombieGrantaire, for the Les Mis Trick or Treat Exchange.

_The Taste of Hope_

The world ends on a Monday.

Grantaire misses the start of the apocalypse. If it wasn't for the insistent, repetitive beeping of her text message alert, she probably would have slept well past noon.

As it is, she wakes to a frantic text from Joly telling her to turn on the television, break out her thickest clothes, and determine if she's close enough to the Corinthe to safely make the journey.

She probably would still have gone back to sleep if she didn't have over twenty other messages from various friends, all along a similar vein. (Though Bahorel's "ZOMBIES!" and Jehan's "What do you think count as bodily fluids?" catch her eye by being different.)

Not sure if she's still dreaming, if she's being the victim of a very well-planned joke, or if something really is happening, Grantaire stumbles out to Remi's living room and the television carefully arranged on the wall. She doesn't bother changing into clothes—her T-shirt works well enough to cover her, she's certain Remi wouldn't mind if he was here, and she's also certain that he's probably at class. The little Cajun import is still enamored with his art classes, something Grantaire has promised him will pass.

The news channels are all running specials on the "mysterious plague" causing an "epidemic of violence".

The other channels still run their usual programs, and Grantaire finds herself staring open-mouthed as she flips between pictures of shambling bodies, a children's cartoon, and a (surprisingly well-directed) sex scene.

"There is a _zombie apocalypse_ , and nothing changes." Setting the remote down, Grantaire shakes her head and listens to the reporters give suggestions.

Stay inside.

Ration food and water.

Don't open the door—apparently zombies, or the "infected" as they're being called, don't open doors.

Use texting and instant messaging as much as possible, to try to keep communications open.

Don't go outside unless it's absolutely necessary.

It's almost two miles from Remi's house to the Corinthe. There is food and water enough to last for quite a while. It's comfortable, and the reporters promise that the epidemic will be contained and order restored within the day.

Making a decision that is only partly influenced by her hang-over, Grantaire sends out a text saying where she's staying. She waits long enough to ensure that everyone she really cares about has sent her a response before stumbling back to bed.

When she wakes up, hopefully the nightmare will be over.

XXX

The power goes out after two days.

That gives her time enough to watch the deterioration of the city, shown in snippets. She watches as the number of shambling bodies in the streets increases, as the barriers thrown up to contain them are overrun, as the information about the epidemic becomes less and less certain and the reporter's faces more and more panicked.

She starts talking to the television after the first day.

"Don't put a blockade _there_ , you're going to block escape for a lot of homeless and transient people. Not that you thought they were more than zombies before, but..."

"Stop telling people to lock their doors! You're just making them more scared!"

"Bet you feel bad about increasing the width of the roads now, huh?" The last is said as she watches the latest attempt at containment fail, a flood of people in personal protective wear running from the thankfully slow-moving horde. "At least you can talk to rebels."

It's worse once the power goes out. At least before she had the release of other human voices from the television. Once that's gone, and there is only her own thoughts for company...

She would call someone, but she hadn't charged her phone for over a day before the power went out, and she hoards each little bar of battery life, needing to know that a life-line exists to the outside world. She texts as little as possible, allows herself to read texts only once every three hours (two hours... one hour... thirty minutes... it won't matter if she survives if she's mad by the end).

The bars still disappear faster than she ever would have thought possible, and by day six she is well and truly alone.

XXX

The infected begin walking down her hall on day seven.

It isn't her hall, she reminds herself sometimes. It is Remi's hall, and she is a guest here, but she hasn't heard from Remi in three days. (She hopes he is alive, somewhere—hopes that he, like her, has simply run out of power in his phone. He had said he was safe, after all, ensconced in one of the art buildings with some other students.)

The steps are slow, hesitant, uncertain. They don't pause at the door. There is sometimes a scrape of flesh against the plaster of the wall, but it isn't designed to frighten, she's sure. It's simply what they do, the infected—walk, and watch, and follow any warm heat signature that they find, an implacable shadow that _will_ eat you once you fall.

Or at the very least bite you, turn you into one of them.

How do they decide whether to leave enough of a person to turn? Is there still some rudimentary recognition of the sanctity of life left in them? Or do they simply have smaller stomachs, shrunken by whatever process makes them immune to pain and turns their blood to a thick sludge but leaves them walking?

She tries to read.

She paces trails in the carpet, scuffs circles in the bare wooden floors.

She devours food she would never have eaten raw before, working her way steadily through everything edible in Remi's apartment.

After eight days the food is gone.

After ten days the beer and wine are also gone.

By the next morning, when sobriety slowly returns, Grantaire has decided that she will have to be gone, too.

XXX

The end of the world makes her a good person.

Or perhaps a suicidal person.

She couldn't say, right now, and she's not sure it matters.

All that matters is that she has found another _person_ , an _individual_ , someone else who is foolish or desperate enough to be wandering the infested streets. Granted, this individual is better prepared than Grantaire. Where Grantaire is wearing three shirts, two pairs of pants, the heaviest boots she could find in Remi's apartment, cotton gloves, a baseball cap, and swimming goggles, the individual Grantaire is currently trying to save is wearing an actual PPE suit.

Are they a doctor?

Are they one of the aid workers who had flitted on and off the television?

Perhaps not, because beneath the green suit that is steadily being shredded by the clutching hands of the infected is an ensemble similar to Grantaire's. Perhaps this person stole the suit, then.

The individual spins, feet lashing out in a complicated pattern, driving back the closest infected. They lash out with a splintered piece of wood in their right hand, their left clutching a box to their chest.

Perhaps they're some kind of trained fighter—military? Police?

Perhaps they will kill Grantaire.

It doesn't matter at this point. Anything is better than being alone in a world filled with walking corpses.

So instead of running, using this person's presence as a distraction to escape, Grantaire bludgeons a path through the thinnest collection of infected, grabs the individual's hand, and starts running.

Running is, thankfully, something that the infected lack the coordination to do.

Not that it matters in the long-term, because once the infected have a trail they will follow it, painstakingly driving their prey before them, but it makes survival in the short term easier.

The hand that Grantaire grips is firm, the pressure steady and certain. It is also strangely familiar, despite the gloves on both their hands. Perhaps that's just a result of the isolation, though. After all, it couldn't really be—

The other person stumbles over an uneven break in the street. Their reflective face shield slips, sliding around to block their vision. With a muffled oath, the person tosses their head, shaking the damaged hood loose and revealing a shock of golden-blond hair.

Grantaire immediately stumbles to a halt. " _Enjolras?!_ What are you—"

"Keep running for at least another block or two. Then we'll head west. There's too many infected to approach the Corinthe from the front, but if we come up from the back we might be able to make it in. _Have_ to make it in." Enjolras clutches the box she has been carrying closer, tugging on Grantaire's hand until she begins running again. "Thank you. For the save back there. I didn't realize I had picked up a tail until they had me surrounded."

"You..." Grantaire swallows hard. Of all the people she could have possibly saved, the leader of the Amis hadn't even crossed her mind—partly because Enjolras was supposed to be _safe_ , ensconced in the Corinthe with the others. "Why are you out here? Did something happen? Are the others?"

"They're still safe." Enjolras once more clutches the box close. "They're working on a treatment."

" _What?_ " The world seems to spin around Grantaire, and she decides that focusing on breathing and running is going to have to come before talking.

"A treatment. A cure. Well... perhaps a cure. At least a way to hopefully restore some sanity to these poor people."

Grantaire tries not flinch at the use of the word _people_ to refer to the infected. Thinking of them as something different—something to be overcome—has been one of the few things letting her cling to sanity as she ran from them over the last two days. How can Enjolras fight them so viciously one moment and acknowledge their previous humanity in the next?

"They didn't ask for what happened to them. And though we can't allow them to take us—to kill us or infect us—I also won't forget that they're our people. Our countrymen." Enjolras' fingers tighten around Grantaire's hand. "We will save them."

"How?"

"Joly and Combeferre." Enjolras pauses, drawing deep, even breaths as she runs. "And Bahorel, surprisingly. He... saw things, when he was in the military. Things he wasn't supposed to see, things that they thought he wasn't intelligent enough to understand. People always seem to underestimate that man."

Grantaire refrains from saying that Bahorel encourages it, the man loving to skewer people intellectually almost as much as he likes punching them in the face. Almost.

"He made copies, gave them to our resident doctors, and they're fairly certain the information is related. Fairly certain they can make a cure."

Grantaire sighs, relaxing as Enjolras finally takes their sprint down to a light jog. "Let me guess. Super-soldier project?"

Enjolras just nods.

"Figures. When will people learn that it never ends well?"

"It could. Strength, resilience, advanced healing—it could all be wonderful, if it weren't done in secret and meant just for destruction."

"Well, it's not ending well _this_ time."

"Who says?" Enjolras slows to a walk, pulling Grantaire up against a building. "The end isn't here, and from where I'm sitting the future looks hopeful."

Grantaire can't help a soft, strained laugh. "The future always looks hopeful to you, Enjolras."

Enjolras' lips curve into the faintest hint of a smile. "Perhaps that means it always is."

"Even now... even with this..."

"Especially now. Especially with what just happened." Enjolras presses Grantaire back against the wall, slowly, her body moving inexorably closer. "Because I should have died, but instead I'm alive."

"I didn't... I..." Grantaire exhales loudly, staring down at Enjolras' mouth. "It was foolish."

"It was brave. It was wonderful. It was one human being reaching out to another." Enjolras reaches up with her free hand, traces Grantaire's cheek down to her chin. "Some people break in a crisis. But you... you, I think, finally found yourself. And I'm very glad to see what it is you found."

"I just didn't want to be alone anymore." Grantaire makes the admission in a rush. "I didn't care if I died, as long as I didn't have to be alone."

"You were kind—not just to me, but to those we fought. You didn't hold back, because we needed to escape, but you weren't more brutal than you needed to be. You did well, Grantaire. You did very well."

Grantaire can feel heat rush to her skin, her entire body seeming to glow with sudden warmth.

"This next part's going to be hard. I had a tough time getting out; I'm sure we'll have a harder time getting in." Enjolras doesn't move back, staying close to Grantaire, and despite the fact that it's impossible, despite the layers of clothing between them, Grantiare swears she can feel the body heat flowing off Enjolras in steady waves. Or perhaps it's a different kind of heat, a different kind of intensity. "If you don't want to come, I don't blame you."

Grantaire shakes her head. "Where you go, I go."

Enjolras' brow wrinkles, just the faintest hint of uncertainty. "Why?"

"Because." Grantaire swallows. "You see hope. And if you see it... I'm sure we can get there."

Enjolras smiles, a flash of white teeth like a rainbow during a storm. Standing on tiptoe, she leans the length of her body against Grantaire, her lips a hair's breath from Grantaire's. "May I?"

Grantaire exhales her answer. "Whatever you wish."

It's a fast meeting of their lips, the kiss hesitant on Enjolras' part, tentative despite the way Enjolras leans against Grantaire. Enjolras' lips are slightly chapped, and she tastes of salt and sweat and warm exertion, but there is another taste beneath all that. A slightly sweet taste, a unique taste, something that is solely Enjolras.

And then Enjolras has broken the kiss, is pulling her determinedly toward the corner and their next mad sprint.

Grantaire follows, smiling like she rarely did even before the world ended, like she was certain she never would again, the taste of hope lingering lightly on her lips.


End file.
